Chapter Five
Kinsley
Itold him to pick.
As if JJ will have any sort of clue where I want to go.
I’m one of the pickiest people out there.
He’s not my ex (thank God for small favors), having lived together for many years and shared the same meals…
Who am I kidding? That dipshit had no clue what I liked to eat either.
He was far too selfish to pay attention.
Everything was always about him. Now, however, I’m in my me era.
Finally willing to put my foot down and make my life about what makes me happy and not someone else.
I wouldn’t mind too much if they were at least appreciative.
This guy could go either way. I didn’t want anything to do with him at first; he’s too young.
Too gorgeous, showing up at the lumber store looking like my real-life mountain man fantasy.
If someone had given him an ax and a hard hat, I’d have believed my hot flash finally took me out, and I was dreaming. He’s that delicious.
It’s difficult enough to think rationally when JJ’s around, I don’t know how I’m going to manage to eat and hold a conversation as well, at the same time.
The thing about this age? Brain fog is a real hindrance, and it’s coming in hot, whether I want it to or not.
Ugh, and don’t get me started on the night sweats or the mood swings.
Some days, I either want to cry or punch something.
This cougar puberty is rough, especially when you have a younger guy coming out of nowhere, acting like my very own golden retriever hero.
Who does that anyway?
Not the typical Joe-Schmoe on the corner, that’s for sure. Nah, normal people are assholes, so when he asked me about getting food, there was no way I was going to turn him down. And now I’ve given him the power to choose where we eat.
What if he picks Indian, or seafood?
Oh God, or Chinese?
I hate it all equally!
I don’t want to spend the entire time we’re at a restaurant trying not to breathe, and when I finally do, not puking in front of this guy. If he happens to order red onions? Deal. Breaker.
I should cancel and be done with it before I self-sabotage and write this guy off completely because his palette is cultured and mine is still stuck in second grade.
He’s a young guy, so maybe he’ll go with sandwiches.
They’re a safe option. A cheaper option, too, given he could be in an entry-level position for work.
I should’ve asked. I had time to make small talk when we were in his truck, but I was too amped up on our makeshift stakeout to think anything more would come out of the situation.
He did save me from maybe getting kidnapped, so I guess I can give him a chance.
All that worrying last night while I was lying in bed.
I’d tossed and turned, questioning myself whether I’d made the right decision about texting him and then agreeing to dinner, or if I should’ve blown his invitation off and just ended our brief, friendly-ish relationship with a thanks but no thanks.
“Looks like I’m going to dinner tonight, guys,” I tell my two Doberman Pinschers.
They’re my life, and literally the reason I raced home after the police station the other day rather than going out with my lumberjack then and there.
If I had more room, I’d add a few more Dobermans to the mix.
I love them that much. Can you believe my ex once kicked one of our pups?
I knew right then, I would never look at him the same way.
Hell, in that moment, I wanted to kick him in return.
Anyone who hurts an animal like that, who can’t separate the reality from being an intelligent human and making rational decisions when it comes to handling a dog, is a grade A shitbag.
Someone not nice, whom I will never respect.
Fucking dicks.
Shaking the memory off, I’m beyond thankful I never ever have to deal with that situation again.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and bring up my contact list. I scroll until I’m able to change the hunky hero’s contact name to Lumberjack instead of JJ.
I wonder what he’d think of my nicknames for him if he knew what all I’ve called him in my mind since we first saw each other?
He seems like the easy-going type, so he’d probably laugh them off or let me know if he has a nickname for me, too.
I wonder if he does? I stuff the cell back in my pocket as I walk through my garden, letting my dogs take care of their business.
I manage to plunder a few cucumbers. Surprisingly, they’re still growing even though it’s as hot as Satan’s asshole out here, while summer winds down in Texas.
The season, not the temperature. We’ll all be sweating our asses off through November.
It’s why none of us own real jackets; we only have a few cold months, and even our winter isn’t as dire as the northerners’ spring.
It’s okay, I don’t manage well in snow and freezing my tits off, so I’ll stick to the south and my complaining six months out of the year.
I stick the cucumbers in the small basket I’d forgotten outside the other day. I know what you’re thinking, I can’t be too picky if I eat these, but you’d be wrong. I don’t like cucumbers either. I use them to make pickles.
This poor guy is doomed tonight; I just know it.
“Fuck! What do I even wear?” I suddenly shout across the yard at my dogs.
They glance at me like I’m crazy, then go back to lying in the middle of the yard, soaking up the sun.
“Nope, come on. This is not a lounge session, it’s a quick pee trip, then we’re back in the air conditioner.
” I mutter, waving them to follow me. Some days it’s like herding cats, as they want to do their own thing, no matter if it’s tit sweating season or not.
We get inside, and I place the veggies on the counter by my tiny kitchen sink.
I live in an RV full-time, and it’s paid off, compliments of my divorce settlement after we’d sold our house.
Anyway, there’s not a ton of room, but it’s perfect for me and my pups.
I don’t have to worry about coming up with money for a house payment, my utilities are cheaper, and I get my long-desired peace.
I can garden, write my books, and hang out with my dogs, all without the added hassle of everything extra.
While I was scared when it was all happening, now I realize my worry was for nothing.
I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than I am now in my own company.
With a drained huff, I plop down on my couch as my cell begins to ring.
I despise talking on the phone; I’m more of a text person, and I avoid the ‘chit-chat’ a phone call brings on as much as possible.
My closest friend’s name flashes across the screen, and I immediately hit accept.
Amy’s the only person I don’t mind speaking to, although I may not mind it too much if Mr. Lumberjack-snack decides to call me as well.
“Hey!” I answer, already smiling.
“Hey, are you busy?”
“Nah, just let my dogs out, and now I’m trying to cool back off. I do have a crisis I need your advice on, though.” It’s like she read my mind; I was already about to text her.
“A crisis, really?” She sounds highly amused, she’s skeptical, and I don’t blame her.
Maybe I’m being a bit dramatic, but I swear this warrants the mini freak out I’m having.
“Dude, Amy, so this guy asked me out and I sort of agreed, and he’s like really-really hot.
” My words come out faster than usual, and somehow, I picked up on a twenty-year-old valley girl persona in the process.
I sigh. “That sounded ridiculous,” I admit, already beginning to giggle to myself.
I swear it’s the damn heat; I’m losing my mind over here.
She laughs. “It’s okay, I understood what you meant, and eek! A date? When’s the last time you went out?”
“I haven’t.”
“Wait, there’s been no one since the divorce? But you weren’t heartbroken.”
Did I mention we live far away from each other? We do, and it sucks donkey balls, so we don’t know everything about each other all the time. Like this, for example.
“You’re right, I wasn’t heartbroken. The opposite, I was finally free. Since then, I haven’t wanted to deal with the male population unless I was paying them to fix something.”
“Oh goodness,” she sighs. “Not even a rebound fuck?”
“Nope, I’ve been completely dickless.”
“Well, this is definitely a big deal then. Obviously, this guy must be amazing already if he’s managed to snag your attention.”
“Oh, yeah. He has no problems being amazing so far. In fact, he reminds me of a lumberjack with his big, yummy arm muscles. Like a lumber snack.”
She chuckles. “Arm candy? Sounds like a good time.”
“I hope so. Eventually. The crisis I’m having is that I have no idea what to wear. I live in comfy, stretchy, cheer shorts and cotton T-shirts for the most part. You know what it’s like being in the cave and not caring what we look like.”
She’s a writer too, like me. We write all the spicy hotness you fill your Kindles with.
“Go with a dress. You always look great in them, and you won’t overheat.”
“That’s a good idea. I’m probably way overthinking this, but the panic set in, and I was spiraling.”
“You totally are. He’s already asked you on the date, so he likes you, whether he’s seen you in your boring shorts and top knot hairstyle or not.”
“You’re the best. I tell you that all the time, but it’s true.”
“I’m pretty great,” she agrees immediately, making me laugh. “You’re a boss bitch, don’t question it. Hell, wear jeans and a T-shirt, he’d be stupid not to want to see you again.”
I thank her for her remarkable insight and promise to follow up, letting her know how the date goes before we say our goodbyes and hang up. I toss my phone on the closest surface and take off for my bathroom.